I become painfully attached to inanimate objects. I have been known to hold conversations with such diverse, yet uniformly non-responsive, possessions such as my Cube (my computer, to those uninitiated in the Ways of the Macintosh), my teddy bear, various books, my boots.
Ah. My boots. My London Boots. My Doc Martens London boots. My Doc Martens London shiny black glossy 10-hole molded-to-my-foot worn-soled torn beaten and battered boots. I love them. They are an extension of me. They are my signature.
But today, I will replace them.
The holes gape too widely, the tread has forgotten the meaning of the word "non-slip." The leather is torn in a dozen places, and I am eternally grateful that New York saw very little snow this year -- I may as well wear sandals for all the protection these afford from the elements. But still I love them. They have been almost perpetually on me for a year. They have seen everything I have seen. They have been everywhere I have been. These boots have been my most constant and faithful companion. Somehow, I feel guilty at the idea of supplanting them.
I do not know exactly how long I have had this connection to my possessions. I will share with you here one of its earlier, but certainly not earliest, incarnations.
Ode To My Toothbrush
by Fulminous, age 11
Oh, my darling toothbrush,
You stay hidden out of sight
In my dry dark cupboard
For the day and all the night.
The only time I take you out
Is when I need to clean
My teeth from eating Jello
From my mom's good soup tureen.
I cover you with toothpaste,
So minty-cool and fresh,
Only trouble that I ever have
Is fitting you 'tween my metal mesh
Of braces, with their rows
Of icky, pointy bits of steel
Inside which you can see remains
Of every single meal.
So this ode I give you, toothbrush
For your service every day --
That's why I regret to tell you,
I'm throwing you away.
Maybe I do not need new boots after all...